We And Our Monsters
by wolstroh
Summary: As a child Bruce was terrified of the dark and the monsters that lived in it. When he grew up, he became a monster himself. A monster, that painfully needed yet another, the smiling one. (Can be crossovered with Batman: Arkham City.)


As a child Bruce was terrified of the dark. It seemed to him that in it, deep down, there were living big scary monsters with oily black eyes that were glistening brightly. Bruce couldn't fall asleep at night, anxiously clutching the blankets with his trembling fingers, being so incredibly scared to see this mean _inhuman_ glitter.

Neither mother, nor father didn't know about this shameful childish fear, because especially for them Bruce wanted to appear as adult, and brave, and strong. So, when Martha kissed tenderly her son's forehead, wishing him a good night, he replied with a doom, perceptible only to himself: "Yeah, good."

However, after that _special_ evening in the cinema Bruce was no longer worried about the boogeymen under his bed. After that evening there appeared these other, real monsters, whose eyes sparkled with something _inhuman_, too, something so wild and ferocious. They were not the fruit of a child's imagination, they just _were_.

The world has turned upside down, and suddenly, all the nightmares of an eight year old boy proved to be just some kind of a stupid joke, an amusing nonsense that could never, not in any way become real. Bruce didn't think about them, never again. And soon they were simply forgotten, like if they hadn't even existed. For a very, very long time they didn't make themselves felt, and only after what seemed eternity they flew into the window with a bat, smashing the glass and suddenly recalled memories into pieces.

Bruce _embraced_ the dark, together with all his fears and doubts, settled it inside. He covered his own face with a black glossy mask of a monster which seemed to blend with his skin and even _replace_ it.

Dear inmost beast was brought to life. Batman felt nothing, but Bruce could feel the darkness slowly clouding his vision, not allowing to see. For the first time in years, he returned to his secret intimate freaks, the ones that were no longer outside. The internal noose. The committed suicide landmark. The monster created to help was suddenly _too much_.

Bruce has almost gone crazy this time when there appeared yet another monster, from the _outside_. Quite different from Bruce's, totally opposite. The _smiling_ one. Bruce had never seen such before. He was bright and noisy, unstable, an irredeemable liar, but at the same time so horribly _similar_ to his own monster, to _the Batman_. Bruce was unpleasantly amazed to discover that seeing things has become easier, and that the grip on his neck has loosened.

The newspapers called the smiling monster _The Joker_. Batman (or Bruce, or even both) tried to learn more about him, but it seemed like The Joker was really some kind of a boogeyman, with no past, no history, no anything. A mystery that doesn't require any resolve.

Perhaps it developed into obsession at the very beginning.

_(Bruce remembers the monsters from his childhood, he remembers them being silent, dark, and awaiting. Like _Batman_. Of all the known to Bruce The Joker resembled only Gwynplaine; his eyes were glistening with the familiar oily radiance, but they were too bright and knowing, fluorescent-green. They attracted Bruce's attention, as though having some kind of magnetic gravity.)_

Batman needs The Joker. The Joker needs Batman.

It is the most indestructible connection in the world. Stronger than love, stronger than hate, stronger than kinship of twins itself. The link between two monsters, suffering mutual obsessive-compulsive disorder. Even reciprocal love is less harmonious.

The connection more powerful than death. The connection _after life_.

...Bruce remembers the first days very _vaguely_. Perhaps because the thought doesn't want to fit into his head. Perhaps because Batman _refuses_ to accept it.

A world _without_ The Joker seems impossible. The Joker is an unstable constant, and Batman isn't even able to imagine that things can be _otherwise_, that there is such an opportunity — to exist without him.

"Joker's dead! No joke!" says every newspaper, website, TV show. Gotham is celebrating its happiest, the most _important_ holiday in the history.

And the monster inside Bruce, it seems, for the first time is standing perfectly _still_, in a terrible shock. Sick immobility. As if he _stopped_ (and it's so impossible, because Batman _never_ stops).

And Bruce, it seems, continues to lose his mind. Relost in the dark, which he feared so much in the childhood, especially before the bedtime when mother (now long rotten) gently kissed his forehead and wished him good night.

Bruce is attached to the dead more than to the living.

That's why he isn't surprised when Batman returns to the cave after now suddenly meaningless patrol and sees The Joker quietly leaning against the dashboard. _Smiling._ As always.

They are standing paralyzed, staring at each other like that very first time in the Wilde's mansion. Only The Joker is strangely silent; Batman is too used to his laughter.

"You're alive", Batman's the first to speak, and it's also so strange, because it is usually The Joker who cannot whist.

The Joker just smiles. His eyes are glowing brightly, _knowingly_.

Batman moves closer, his chest is terribly heavy with obnoxious, uncomfortable _suspense_.

_How much of you is real?_

He stops inches from The Joker, clenching fingers into the fists almost to the point of pain. The Joker still doesn't say a word, still _motionless_.

Batman approaches his face to The Joker's, feels his warm, soft breath on the cheeks.

"_How much of you is real?_" he asks in a whisper.

The Joker doesn't reply, smiling all the same.

Batman barely manages to suppress his suddenly _lifelike_ rage, he sharply grabs The Joker's shoulders,trying to find a _support_ or maybe just the answer to his question. His hands are shaking slightly, but Batman is relieved to feel the same heat under his palms.

Fluorescent-green eyes are so close that it gives Batman headache.

"You cannot die", Batman says with deep-seated certainty. "I _know_ you, Joker, I know you better than _anyone_. You _cannot _die."

He is close to starting to shake The Joker by his shoulders. Just to get at least _some_ response. Just to be sure he's not going _that_ crazy.

Short breeze on the lips — The Joker laughs soundlessly, staring Batman intently in the eyes. Then he leans to his ear and whispers, "_Of course_. Of course I can't, darling."

Batman exhales softly with relief and shuts his eyes, feeling the warmth of The Joker's body, still clutching harshly for him.

The monster within goes quiet.


End file.
